


What You Missed

by ariz0nababy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Completed, Drarry, Established Relationship, Grief, M/M, Minor Character Death, One-Shot, Post-War, Potions Draco, Short, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariz0nababy/pseuds/ariz0nababy
Summary: Draco and Harry go their separate ways after Hogwarts. These are the 10 things they missed.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini & Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Ron Weasley
Kudos: 5





	1. Narcissa Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

> CW/TW: minor character death and implied suicide. Misuse of drugs/potions.

**1998**

Harry missed Draco finding his mother. 

Before the war they shared brief kisses between classes, pressed against the castle walls past curfew. 

It was often cold and dark, when they sneaked away from their respective dormitories. But when they found each other, Draco in a hidden alcove, Harry underneath his invisibility cloak, their skin was made from fire. 

They spoke quietly, whispering after their kisses grew too heated and they had to step away before Harry sunk to his knees, taking Draco into his mouth. He sucked him off once, and they were nearly caught. Draco couldn’t take the risk of Lucius finding out he fucked men, not after the last time. 

When Lucius knew it was all anger and silent hatred at the Manor. It had been with an older Slytherin, and Lucius tended to read Draco’s unopened letters only to be spiteful and cruel. His mother, divided, only spoke to Draco when his father was not around. When she did, her eyes couldn’t meet his. 

But then the war happened before Lucius or anyone else could find out about them. It hardly mattered, because Voldemort created a divide between them that was impossible to bridge. 

By then, they stopped meeting. Harry was too busy. He left. Draco was stuck in the Manor, hating every part of his being. Hating his father for being so complacent, his mother for following his every word. He hated Voldemort, who tainted his home with dark, sickening magic. 

Mostly, he hated having Harry gone. He thought, always, of him. Not only of his kisses, but of the worried tone in his voice the last time they kissed. 

“I’m afraid,” he’d said, pulling away after several minutes of kissing. “Draco.”

Draco had attempted to pull him in for another kiss, but Harry frowned at him. “You’re on their side.”

“No,” Draco said.

Harry glanced at his wrist, but it was plain and pale. He wasn’t a fool. Even despite Lucius’s angry insistence, Draco could only think of Harry’s disapproval. He would do anything to kiss him. If a mark prevented it, then fuck the mark. 

But Harry glancing at his wrist was painful. 

“What?” Draco rolled up the sleeves of his robe. “Look, I didn’t take it.”

“Okay,” Harry said, quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m on edge.”

“Right,” Draco looked away. “I should go.”

“Okay,” Harry smiled a little. “I know you’re afraid too. But I’ll kill him, Draco. I don’t care. I will.”

Draco suppressed his fears of Voldemort, though he knew they were present. “He’s too powerful. You’ll get hurt.”

“Are you worried about me?” Harry kissed him softly, pulling him closer by the waist. “That’s very sweet.”

“Fuck off,” Draco said.

“Shh,” Harry let go, eyes snapping to the empty hallway. “You’ll have us caught.”

They kissed again. Even when they parted, they kissed. Neither of them knew it would be the last time. 

* * *

Draco found her after the trials. 

The trials were long and ruthless. They attacked the Malfoys mercilessly. Draco was nearly sentenced himself, but Harry and his friends acquitted him. He was innocent, after all. His unwillingness to take the mark was testament of his character, they said.

Draco wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at Harry, who stood as the shell of the man he knew. Eyes sunken into his skull, skin colorless and pale from grief and fatigue. Draco could hardly believe he was the same person he kissed, shared whispered conversations with. 

Their eyes met several times. Harry’s were dark with anger and grief. When he looked at him, he seemed to ache for him. Draco flushed, and could only think of them kissing. Even when his father was sentenced to life in Azkaban, he only looked at Harry.

They stared at one another. It was the first time they were in the same vicinity since Harry defeated Voldemort. 

After the trial, Draco was whisked away by his family and their solicitors. He only caught Harry’s eyes briefly. 

Later, he knew how childish and desperate he was to only think of Harry while his life fell apart. 

The Manor was kept only for Draco’s sake, who had nowhere else to go.

His mother withdrew from everyone, curled into herself and allowed no one else in. Lucius was gone, her entire life was stolen from her by his own doing. 

Draco cursed him, for hurting her, hurting his family. 

“Nonsense,” Narcissa had said, when he said so to her, brushing tears from her eyes. “He knew nothing. He was coerced and a fool, but he meant no harm.”

Draco could hardly stand her. He left the Manor for hours on end without notifying her. She paid him no mind. She roamed the Manor with a shawl around her shoulders, lost and dazed. She took potions to calm her nerves, but their side-effects were potent. She was indisposed most of the time, silent and fatigued by their effects. 

Draco, shunned from society by his father’s actions, could hardly venture out without being targeted and attacked. He roamed the Manor grounds, searching the trees and plants for a distraction. He found creatures of nature, pixies or birds he never saw before. He spent hours wandering the grounds, losing himself in thoughts that distracted him from his mother and father.

It was upon his return from one of those walks that he found her. 

He froze at the entrance of the living room. The air was heavy and cold. He was sick, his lunch spewed all over Narcissa’s favorite rug. 

Later, they ruled it wasn’t suicide. She was taking a high dose of the calming potion, unaware that each time she did, she risked her weakened heart failing. That morning, she took her usual dose, but sickened by grief and sadness, could no longer handle their potency. 

Her funeral was small and quiet. Only a few attended. Aunt Andromeda arranged most of it, as though she wasn’t busy attending her own funerals. She hugged Draco gently, then talked quietly to the guests. 

Lucius sent a letter from Azkaban, but Draco saved it for when he had the courage. 

If only he hadn’t been distracted by his own selfish thoughts, perhaps he could have cared for her better. 

Potter had also sent him a letter, after hearing of Narcissa’s death. That too, he left unopened. Perhaps if he hadn’t been thinking so vividly of Harry, how he’d looked after the war, how he wanted to comfort him, what he would say if he ever saw him again, then Narcissa would still be alive.

Draco holed himself in the Manor for months. 

Slowly, the distance between Harry and Draco grew too large. A reconnection was too awkward, too sudden to fathom. No letters were written. 

Harry missed the funeral, he missed Narcissa’s passing. 

Draco thought of him, what he would do if Harry was there. What he would tell him. How he’d felt when he’d seen her body, lifeless and cold. How they had to pull him from her, when they carried her away, how his shouts burned a permanent ache in his throat. That even months after the funeral, he grieved for her at every moment. She was his mother. Harry knew what it was like to lose a mother. Harry would know what to say, or what to do. He would.

Then Draco tucked his thoughts away, and tried to forget about him. 


	2. A Weasley Wedding

**1999**

Draco missed Ron and Hermione’s marriage, though he would have regardless, Harry thought. 

Occasionally, when happy things like weddings took place, he thought of Draco, who was farthest from happy. He thought of him being at the wedding, where Harry gave a speech to his two best friends. He thought of his sarcastic smile, but then his kisses, later, when they would sneak away. Because of course if Draco was there, they would sneak away mid-reception, find a tree near the Burrow to satisfy their kisses. 

Instead, Harry took Ginny as his date. It was platonic. 

Which was fine, except Draco not being there was painfully obvious to him. That he knew, no matter what, he’d rather be with no one but him at the wedding. That if things worked out his way, which they never did, Draco would be more than his date for the wedding. That they would go home together, to Grimmauld Place, and sleep in Harry’s bed, and talk of their own future. 

Instead, Ginny held his hand, and Harry felt grief wash over his chest when he rejected her touch. 

He remembered the papers, announcing Narcissa’s death, how he’d struggled to comprehend what Draco was feeling. He knew he should see him, that he should have gone to the funeral and been there for him. But the funeral was small, for family only, and Harry wanted Draco to have that without intervention. He knew what it was like, to grieve so violently that anything having nothing to do with it would be unwanted distraction. It would seem small, and something like a joke. 

Later, he wrote him a letter, expressing his condolences. 

_I miss_ _you_ he’d written above his signature, then remembered the subject of his letter and found it inappropriate. He discarded it, and wrote his letter again.

For days, he waited for a response. Anything. A note, a letter, a scribble. 

He grew anxious, biting his nails, jerking his leg under the dinner table. He held his breath every time his owl delivered a letter. He thought, every time, this must be the one. That this letter, with that stamp, held _his_ writing. He remembered it. Draco's writing was thin, light, and perfectly proper.

But it never was _the one_ , and he wondered if it would always be like that. If he would hold his breath _every time_. 

Eventually, he learned, Draco never intended to write him back.

Perhaps, he liked to think that the letter was lost. But no part of him could stomach the idea of sending yet another one. 

That was a year before the wedding, and still Harry thought of Draco. Alone at the Manor without his mother. 

The day after the wedding, head still full with thoughts of Draco, he searched the papers for a clue. Finding no mention of him, he took to desperate measures. The Auror database was up to date, but the last news concerning Draco was the funeral. He’d kept his head down since.

Harry could hardly blame him. He thought of writing to him, kindling a reconnection. But it had been over a year since the trials, since the day Harry last saw his thin frame, his terrified eyes at court. It would be strange to write to him now, with no purpose. What would he even say?

He could remember, however, a time when it was a lot easier for him to speak to Draco. When they spoke openly and candidly, kissing between sentences, fingers running over their Hogwarts robes, Draco pulling at his Gryffindor scarf.

“Your father,” Harry said, pulling away briefly. “What is he like?”

“Rubbish, as I’m sure you’re well aware,” Draco had said. “Will you stop talking?”

Harry laughed, kissing him for a while longer. The alcove was cold, they shivered as they squeezed themselves from plain view. “Tell me.”

Harry warmed his hands with his breath, taking Draco’s into his hands as well, breathing into their hands. Draco eyed him carefully. 

“He cares for me, I suppose,” he said gingerly. “As a father does. He does his duty, you are aware.”

“But what is he _like_ ,” Harry said, “when it’s just the two of you.”

Draco felt sorry for him for a moment. “Stern, I would say. He’s very strict. Always making sure I’m top of the class, which, no thanks to your dear friend is a topic of hot debate at the Manor.”

Harry smiled, drawing him closer, kissing the corner of his lips. “When you were younger?”

“Spoiled me senseless,” Draco said, warming his hands beneath Harry’s shirt. He shivered beneath his cold touch. “Bought me books, toys, brooms, cloaks. My parents took me to parties with them, fancy events for families like ours. I was allowed to drink champagne with them, join political conversations, make friends with other affluent children.”

“Affluent children,” Harry smiled teasingly. “Like, Pansy?”

“Yes,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Like Pansy or Theo.”

Harry, satisfied but still curious, kissed him until they both grew tired, or heard a noise. They went their separate ways, Harry thinking of Lucius as a father, of Draco as a child attending parties and dinners. Harry, himself at that age, perhaps locked in his cupboard while Draco was entertaining himself and setting a future for himself. 

When the war drew nearer, when Harry and Draco sensed something was wrong, when Slytherins arrived at Hogwarts with the Dark Mark forever stained to their skin, they spoke more seriously. Kisses were scarce during these conversations, reserved for only when they parted. 

Harry, terrified of his fate, confided in Draco. “He’s going to kill me.”

“No,” Draco said. “Not if I have a say in the matter.” 

Later, when Draco saved him in the Manor, Harry recalled his words, not knowing how far Draco would go to defend him. But of course, Draco would. 

After the wedding, when over a year had gone by since the trials, Harry willed himself to forget. To forget the kisses, the whispers, the conversations. He kept an eye on Draco while he worked for the Aurors, listening to every complaint made about Lucius, remembering Draco’s fondness for his father before he’d gone and ruined it. 

But no case concerning Draco ever showed up. Eventually, Harry would grow tired of thinking of him, though that wouldn't put a stop to it.

Hermione and Ron, busy being married and happy, only briefly noticed his distress. It seemed everyone had moved on with their lives except for Harry. 

He wondered, for the millionth time, what Draco was up to, if he thought of him at least half as often as Harry thought of him.


	3. Muggle Town

**1999**

Harry would miss Draco’s first real venture out of the Manor. 

Draco read about Hermione and Ron’s wedding, saw the pictures of Harry looking happy and bold as anyone would be at their best friends’ wedding. 

Draco went outside properly. Not to the garden, or the forest, or the lake. Not to Pansy’s, or Theo’s, or Blaise’s after a pity invite. 

Not to Azkaban, because even if the idea of seeing Lucius didn’t instantly make him ill, visits were strictly limited and Draco didn’t make the cut.

Instead, he went to a Muggle area not far from the Manor. He converted his galleons to Muggle pounds and, strictly speaking, went shopping. 

He needed to go out, to leave the Manor which only reminded him of Narcissa. The very thought of his mother tugged at his gut, made him sweat and recoil. He missed her desperately, the Manor itself seemed to sag in her absence. The fresh flowers she liked to pick and display on the kitchen table were missed, and the abandoned garden at the back was distraught with Draco’s fruitless attempts at reviving it. 

It was a relief, to shop in person after months of having things delivered to the Manor. To see Muggles wandering about, who never started or cursed because they had no idea who he was, and Draco liked that about them. For years, he’d listened to his father mock their backwards thinking, mimicking Lucius’s beliefs to please him. Now, he was grateful for their ignorance. He relished in their odd inventions, of endless kitchen appliances and a hundred different unnecessary colors for t-shirts or shoes.

Draco resented it, but he thought of Harry constantly while he was there. He missed him, suddenly and jerkingly. He thought of him all the time, but when he was looking at Muggle t-shirts he missed him painfully and urgently. He had the sudden idea to _accio_ his broom and fly around the country looking for him.

He thought of how that particular pair of jeans resembled Harry’s. He wondered if Harry had his own phone, if Harry had those designer shoes. He pushed all thoughts of him from his head, but distressed jeans and band t-shirts were at every charity shop, and Salazar, if Draco knew anything about Harry it would be how soft those t-shirts felt. 

When they snuck out of their rooms to kiss, Harry wore his pajamas under the invisibility cloak sometimes. Sometimes, this meant a threadbare t-shirt with dark graphics, and striped pajama bottoms. 

Draco thumbed a similar t-shirt then, considering whether or not it would be entirely improper to purchase one himself. But when he found a t-shirt, dark with the name of a band he knew Harry liked to listen to, he found himself purchasing it without a second thought. 

Where would he wear it, he hardly considered it. The t-shirt was stuffed at the bottom of his shopping bag, and he ignored it, while he continued to walk and pray he wasn't losing his mind. 

He was slowly realizing his obsession with Harry was futile. That regardless of their past, it had been too long since they last spoke, and a letter would be useless and strange. 

He thought of the letter Harry sent after Narcissa’s death, how it sat at the bottom of his bedroom drawers. Occasionally he would stare at it, wondering what could possibly hold him back from tearing it open and reading its content. But there was always a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he felt ill simply considering reading Harry’s words. That he would then have to write back to him, and what would he say then? What excuse would he have to justify his long absence, and inability to reach out and make sure he was alive?

At least Draco had the papers to update him on Harry’s life. Last week, he was at the wedding, the week before that he was picking flowers, and the one before that he was out having tea and biscuits with his friends. 

At least Draco could see that he was doing well.

“You need to do something with your time,” Pansy said the next time they spoke via floo.

“Like what?” 

She was tired of him dragging himself around, without a job or passion. At least he could do something useful with his time. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Pick up a hobby. Go running, or something.”

“Running,” Draco repeated. 

“Or find a job,” she said. “Yes, a job would be perfect.”

“With what credentials?” he asked. "The Wizarding World has no place for me."

“Potter had no place in it either, at one point, and look where he is now.”

Draco was startled to hear _his_ name from her lips. They never spoke of Harry before, only on rare occasions which demanded it. “He’s _Harry Potter_ , he hardly requires credentials or experience to land a position. Look, he wasted it on being an Auror.”

“Wasted it,” Pansy scoffed. “I can’t picture him doing anything else.”

Draco could, because they’d spoken of it.

Crouched by the fireplace now, he could hardly remember most of their conversations. It had been a long time ago, and the war had warped his perception of time. But he remembered Harry considering his career. 

“A teacher. I wanted to be an Auror for a while, but a teacher would be somewhat calming,” he said to Draco. “I could teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Ah, the cursed position,” Draco had replied. 

They were out by the lake. It had been long before the war, and although curfews were in place, Draco met Harry at the alcove, who forced him under the invisibility cloak because he was bored, the Marauder's map between his hands. 

“But I could do it,” Harry said, leaning against a tree by the lake, their backs to the castle and a quickly muttered disillusionment charm to conceal them just in case. “Right?”

“Yes,” Draco found himself saying. His shoulder was pressed to Harry’s, they were nearly leaning on one another. Harry found his hand, traced shapes into his palm before twisting their fingers together. “But you better not disappear or die.”

“Be the exception?” Harry asked, smiling. “You ask too much of me.”

“What would the Wizarding World do without you?” Draco had asked him, tightening his hold on his fingers. His eyes, afraid to meet Harry’s, wandered forward to the line of trees that shaped the forbidden forest. 

Harry was quiet then, and asked, “What about you? What will you do after Hogwarts?”

Draco shrugged. “Whatever my father deems worthy by then. Though most likely an odd position at the ministry.”

“Ah, nepotism,” Harry said, in a mocking tone. “How much is he going to pay for your position there?”

“Fuck off,” Draco said, bumping shoulders with him. He had nothing else to say, Harry was right to tease him.

“You’re smart,” Harry finally said when a comfortable silence fell between them. “I know because Hermione complains about it always. She says you hog the best table at the library, and you get along too well with the professors. I had half the mind to tell her that she was not very different herself.”

Draco, surprised but pleased to hear they spoke of him, said, “What else do you talk about when I’m not around?”

Harry laughed shortly, then pulled him in for a kiss. “What would you do? If your father let you do as you pleased?”

Draco thought of it, but he knew his answer. “I’ve been living so long under his expectations, doing as he pleases, I think I’ve lost myself on the way. I don’t know, Harry.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Harry said quietly, fingers rising to brush the hair that fell across Draco’s cheek. “Think of yourself only, and you’ll see.”

They kissed, pressed to the tree. None of their hungry or desperate kisses, only soft presses to their lips in between hushed conversations of Harry’s possible teaching style, or Draco’s directionless ambitions. 

Draco, foolish and young, considered his words for a long time, wondered what it would be like to know who he was without the pressure of his father’s expectations. Soon, he found out, it was a childish notion. Harry wasn’t capable of understanding the relationship Draco shared with Lucius, that doing anything without his permission would be a death wish. 

After his conversation with Pansy, Draco took more frequent walks around the Manor, and then longer walks into the Muggle town closest to him. He avoided band t-shirts and fraying jeans. 

Then, when reading the _Prophet_ he found a listing for a job. He applied, without a second thought. 


	4. Rose Weasley

**2000**

Draco missed Rose’s birth, when Harry was crowned as her Godfather. 

Later, of course, Draco read about it in the papers, but Harry wasn’t aware. 

Harry carried Rose in his arms, cradling her and brushing her soft skin with the pads of his fingers. Rose, bold and round eyed hardly blinked at him. 

“She likes you already,” Hermione said, laying on her bed a few days after leaving St. Mungo’s. Her birth was difficult, long, and painful. Now, she was radiant and beautiful despite the weakness in her bones. 

The moment he had found out she was in labor, he'd thought of Draco. The first person he'd wanted to tell, the first person he'd wanted to share her with. 

“He’s Harry,” Ron said, sitting by her side and pulling her hair from her face. He was constantly doting on her since her pregnancy only a few months after their wedding. “Of course she’ll love him.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Harry said, carrying her near the Burrow’s windows, peering outside the gray sky. “She already resembles her mother.”

Hermione laughed. “She’s only a few days old.”

Harry smiled, Rose’s fingers curling around his pointer. 

Draco was missing that, and the thought of him pulled at Harry’s gut. Of course, the memory of Malfoy would be ruining a moment as this. 

He couldn’t help it, though. He was so used to thinking of him at every occasion, whether good or bad, he could hardly blame himself for thinking of him then. What would he think of Rose? Would he like to see her? Would he be standing there beside him, if he’d replied to Harry’s letter? He must have taken one good look at the letter, and thrown it into the fire. 

_No_ , Harry thought. He would stop himself from thinking of Draco. He hardly knew if he was still living at the Manor, or if he had any friends. He wondered if Draco had tried to move on from Harry, if he’d been with other men since. 

There, Harry would draw the line. 

They were not even _friends_ , he thought. Who was he to be jealous of Draco’s sexual partners, or boyfriends? No, he would stop this obsession now, before it took hold of every good occasion. 

But even as he left the Burrow, he thought of Draco. What was he up to?

At the Auror Department, where he did end up working despite his fleeting dream of becoming a professor, he made his usual skim of his files, but there was no mention of Draco. When he left for his assignment, geared with protective spells and backup Aurors, he thought of him, even when it nearly distracted him from his target. He nearly fell right into a Cruciatus curse, but then dodged it at the last minute. His heart was in his throat. 

Draco was a curse, and Harry was determined to get rid of him. 

But Draco, innocently living his own life, was far from a curse. He was young, naive, and stubborn. Harry resented him, resented that he got what he needed, the galleons, the fame, and then chucked it out the window. 

Harry, frustrated and sick of having Draco plague his thoughts, began drinking himself to sleep. 

But nothing could ease his fingers tingling and his skin burning with the desire to be touched again, by Draco. He could trace the places on his skin where he’d been touched, where Draco’s lips met his skin. He traced his chest, and the curve of his neck. He traced his lips, circling around his mouth like Draco had done in what now felt like eons ago. When he’d slid his fingers inside Harry’s mouth, eyes hooded as he watched Harry take them.

He traced the line of his neck, and the inside of his wrist. He thought if he concentrated hard enough, perhaps Draco could feel his touch, like something Luna once said about the law of attraction or manifestation or _something_. 

Harry licked his lips, touched himself, thinking of Draco’s hot mouth, the snarl on his lips that infuriated Harry but had him jerking his hips. 

He dreamt of him, vividly. An accumulation of his thoughts throughout the day. He felt his fingers on his skin, heard his voice for the first time, and kissed him. It was ripped away from him the moment he opened his eyes, and Harry had to lay there breathless, heart throbbing in his chest. 

No, he would and he must let go of him. If not for his own sanity, then for that of his friends and family. 

Piling his desk with work, Harry strived to distract himself by throwing himself at cases. Dangerous cases, ones which sent him to St. Mungo’s and had him plastered on every British paper. 

A voice inside his head thought, perhaps Draco would see. Perhaps Draco would visit him, urging him to quit his job at the Auror Department. But none of that happened, and Harry continued.

Hermione implored him to slow down. “You’re too young to be growing white hairs, or finding yourself at the hospital every other day, Harry.”

“I’m fine,” he said, casually. It was plainly obvious that he wasn’t, considering the growing bruise on his cheek.

“You’re not,” Hermione said, and Rose began to cry from her crib. Hermione sighed, carrying her in her arms and willing her to stop crying. “What of Rose, Harry? I thought by having you as her godfather, I could trust you to be there for her if anything happens to me or Ron.”

“Nothing will happen to either of you,” he said, sharply. “And I can be there for her.”

“You can hardly walk,” she exclaimed, rubbing Rose’s back as she carried her over her shoulder. “Can you even carry her in the state that you’re in this moment?”

Harry found no words to reply. He watched, as Hermione carried Rose in her arms, ever the dutiful mother and wife. Ron was at work with George, something about managing the store and odd demands, otherwise he was always at home when he could be. He’d hardly considered becoming an Auror after he married Hermione. He knew it would be too demanding for the hopes he had of building his own family.

Harry understood it now, that if he had his own family he would quit, too.

“You should take time off work,” Hermione said, finally finding a way to put Rose back to sleep. “Do something else that doesn’t require constant attention. I don’t know, maybe go see people.”

“Like, on dates?” he asked, borderline laughing but attempting not to be too loud with Rose asleep. They moved to the kitchen, where they continued their conversation more comfortably. 

“When was the last time you did something for yourself?” Hermione asked. “Who do you see other than me and Ron?”

“Plenty of people,” he stated, somewhat affronted by what she was implying. 

“People you don’t see at work, Harry,” she sighed. Stress and fatigue marked every one of her features, but the glow from her pregnancy had yet to cease. “People our age, with things to do outside of work.”

Harry had no interest in meeting new people. He was quite content with having only a handful of friends and family. Why should he bother making new friends, who would only demand more of his already thinning attention? He had no time for friends and socializing. 

He winced, as he took the tea Hermione poured for him. “Thanks, but I’m not interested in making new friends.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, but her eyes were already gleaming in the way Harry had grown to understand as a scheming look. “But don’t come running to me when you’re tired of your job and have nothing to do but whine.”

“Never,” he said, but they smiled, and the subject matter of their conversations grew more amicable. 


	5. The Apothecary

**2000**

Weeks, and then months would pass since Draco saw Harry’s glowing image on the Prophet’s front page, holding Rose Weasley in his arms. Followed by weeks of images of him unconscious at St. Mungo’s. How they found pictures of him so ill-disposed, Draco could hardly imagine. He couldn’t envy Harry’s fame, for once.

But part of him couldn’t believe that he had touched those arms, kissed those lips, ran his fingers through _his_ hair. The same man who’d looked at him and told him how much he wanted to have him. 

No, the images of Harry did _not_ stir something in his stomach which he wished to ignore. It did _not_ leave him feeling anxious, scouring for updates over the next few days only to find him more injured by another mission not long after. No, he did _not_ frantically wait for an announcement of his death. 

_What was he thinking_ , Draco thought. What was _wrong_ with Potter? What made him so eager to be hurt? If Draco had known how much he enjoyed pain, perhaps he would have grabbed him a little harder the first day things had changed.

It had been a long day. The first day back to Hogwarts over the summer holidays. The first day of fifth year, and Draco was tired. He was tired of his father, nudging him to take the classes he preferred rather than to listen to Draco, and tired of his mother’s pliable character. 

In the eyes of the rest of Hogwarts’ students, all was the same. Still, years after his father’s conditioning, Draco knew how to feign an air of success and happiness without letting on his true feelings. 

With his friends, he laughed over the train journey, poking fun at Harry and his friends. He had his Prefect badge, he could reign over Potter and his friends, making his life miserable that year. 

In the back of his mind, though, Draco had noted Harry’s unease. He had looked somber and exhausted despite his quick jabs at Draco. Later, when they ran into each other in the halls past curfew, Harry froze and then frowned. 

Draco, recalling his position, had smirked. “Wandering the halls, Potter? That’s automatic detention for you.”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Harry had said, running his fingers through his mess of curls, dark circles shadowing his brilliant eyes. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

Later, Draco found out he'd been wandering the halls to get away from his Gryffindor friends, who didn’t believe him about Voldemort coming back. 

“I, unlike you, have a duty. I should notify Snape,” Draco said, and strode towards Potter, grabbing his upper arm. “You’re coming with me.”

“Let go of me,” Potter said, angrily yanking his arm back and withdrawing his wand from his sleeve. “Or I’ll curse you.”

Draco laughed, clenching on to him with his finger nails. “ _Curse_ me? Who do you think you are?”

Potter struggled against him. “Why? Are you so desperate to hold me, to touch me? Are you so touch-deprived that you would rather bruise my arm?”

“Shut up,” Draco replied. “Shut up, Potter.”

“I’m fucking tired, Malfoy,” Potter said, rather loudly. “I’m tired of everything and I can’t be bothered by you right now, all right? You can inform Snape for all I care, just let me go back to my room for the night.”

“No,” Draco frowned, though slightly eased his grip. “I don’t trust you. You’re up to something, and everyone knows you can’t be trusted.”

“Fucking hell not this again,” Harry spat out, and finally ripped his arm from Draco. “Jesus, I can’t be around any of you.”

He turned around to head back to his room, and Draco would have let him. He would have let him leave and forget everything that happened, but then they both froze upon hearing a familiar sound of heels clicking on the hallway floor. 

Harry turned, met Draco’s eyes, and instinctively pushed them both into a hidden alcove and pressed him tight against the wall.

“Potter-”

“Shh,” he’d said, pushing him against the wall, mumbling a hurried spell under his breath. “Umbridge.”

They were silent, and the clicking heels stopped a close distance from them, before continuing down the hall. 

Harry released him, and sighed. 

“Why did you do that?” Draco asked him. “I’m a Prefect, I’m allowed to be out.”

“Oh,” Potter frowned, rubbing his finger over his scar. “I don’t know. Instinct, I suppose.”

Draco was silent, confused by his close proximity to Potter. They had never been this close. This was the first time he’d seen his scar so vividly.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, without meaning to.

“A bit,” Harry said, hand reaching for the scar. “Only recently.”

Draco tried to slip out of the alcove, but Harry’s hand prevented him. 

“No, she could be waiting for us. We should stay here for a little longer.”

So they waited, pressed to the alcove for several moments. When Potter deemed it safe, they snuck out quietly, and parted ways without a sound. 

Over the next few days, Draco waited for Potter to show up on his nightly patrols. Of course, he knew all the things his father said to him about Potter over the summer, about him being a liar, about Cedric Diggory’s death. He promised himself, next time he would get him. He would curse him, and have him in detention. 

But next time came, and they both froze silently upon spotting each other.

“Hi,” Potter said, timidly. He looked around himself, seeming on edge. “I guess you’ll have to report me now.”

He was tired all the time, it appeared. Draco had been watching him, watching Potter over lunch or over class, how he looked restless and pained. His dark circles had worsened, the skin underneath his eyes was nearly purple. His eyes were bloodshed, and his skin had lost all its warmth. 

“I...Is it true?” Draco found himself mumbling. “About Voldemort?”

At first their conversations were stilted in that way. Draco, hardly knowing what to say. Potter, surprised and anxious. Draco spoke to him at first only out of curiosity and rebellion against his father’s orders, but later grew to look forward to hearing him share his thoughts. 

Voldemort was back, he learned. He also learned that Harry was missing his godfather, Sirius Black, that Draco couldn’t tell anyone or he would be taken from him again. He learned about the trial over the summer, how he’d used magic to defend himself and his Muggle cousin. 

Draco, at first, had ill-intentions. He vowed to spy for his father, write him long letters proving his worth. Yes, he was a conniving Slytherin, as was expected of him. 

Later, the more he spoke to Potter, the more he understood his pains and the toll it took on him to grieve Diggory’s death alone, and he held his tongue. He no longer sought revenge on Potter for his ill-breeding and rude behaviors. He learned so much from their talks, about Umbridge being a downright pig, and the Ministry being a lie. 

In return, Potter listened to Draco talk about his father, whose expectations were painfully obvious from the day Draco was born. 

One day, after they had been sneaking out to see each other for months, pressed against the alcove and whispering to themselves, Harry leaned in and kissed him. Draco had been whispering about a Slytherin rumor concerning one of his quidditch team mates, his shoulders pressed to Harry’s. Harry was listening to him attentively.

Draco liked to be listened to, and he found himself exaggerating events. He was invigorated by the growing spark in Harry’s eyes as he spoke, at the way his eyes fell to his lips as he nodded. He was listening, interjecting with subtle remarks and occasional hums of understanding.

It was a surprise kiss, a soft peck. Harry only needed to twist his head to the side and slightly lean towards Draco, and they were kissing. Both of them pulled away and were hardly able to speak or react. But then they kissed again, and again, and again. So it became a habit, pre-arranged and expected. 

Draco, throughout the day, kept a distance from Harry. But during the night they met and spoke of Umbridge’s evil treatment, Lucius’s behavior, and then, of the death of Sirius Black which haunted Potter forever. After that, things changed. It was about the war, about Voldemort, about Death Eaters and Draco’s fear of his father. 

They couldn’t tell anyone, and their meetings grew sparse. Over the summer, Draco was plagued by the events leading up to the war, and he was certain he would return to Hogwarts and find Harry cold and distant. But he only found him more hurt than before, and together they spoke of matters no one else could console them over. 

-

Draco shook Harry from his mind, throat tightening at the memory of Potter’s grief, and Draco’s grief for him. He could understand it more acutely now, with Narcissa’s death still fresh on Draco’s mind. 

But news of Harry’s missions grew less frequent. He had no reason to think of him. Though that didn’t stop him every now and again. 

At work, Draco arranged potions and draughts in a creaking old apothecary. The owner was a short man who was too old and too ill-fitted for his job to frequent the store more than twice a week. Draco, unperturbed, relished in the thought of it. He liked having the store to himself, cleaning shelves with the bored swish of his wand, and later, reading books about spells and potions when the thrum of customers lulled mid-afternoon. 

In the back room, the cauldrons and ingredients for potions sat untouched by Draco. It wasn’t his job to make the potions, though his fingers itched to make something regardless. 

The owner, Mr. Inkwell, only allowed him to recreate certain harmless potions that were most frequently requested by customers, such as Dreamless Potions or Pepperups. Otherwise, the ingredients were heavily monitored, and Draco wouldn’t dare. 

Besides, despite his inkling to make his own potions, he knew he was ill-equipped. He could hardly recall the last time he sat at his Potions class, let alone what he’d been doing. 

The books in the back room, which he brought behind the desk whenever Inkwell wasn’t around, helped in a way. Draco quickly remembered the basic lessons. He knew which ingredients did what, which potions were too dangerous, which were illegal to produce. He read these books all the time when no one was at the store, and he liked imagining that he was still at Hogwarts. 

When he did, his mother was still alive, his father was at home instead of Azkaban where he belonged, and Harry still held his hand. Hogwarts was all of that which made him warm and happy at some point in his life, and he knew that he had taken it for granted. 

How ludicrous, he thought, that he had framed his whole life around a man who hardly cared for him, who’d perhaps only seen him as a warm body to hold or kiss. 

Even later, when news of Draco working a feeble job at an apothecary despite his rumored inheritance spread like wildfire, he only thought of what Harry would think of the news. 

Would he laugh? Or would he sigh with disappointment? Perhaps he wouldn’t glance at the papers, and entirely miss the news. Or better (or worse?) perhaps he wouldn’t care about it at all.

But Draco could only think of what they spoke of that night, about Lucius and his expectations of Draco. This was far from his ideal job, but this was better than a useless position at the Ministry, despite its feeble income. 

Customers began to stare, once they recognized who he was from the papers. 

At the start of his employment, some would stare and question themselves, but then convince themselves they were mistaken, that it could in no way be Malfoy’s heir working behind a desk. His hair had grown past his chin, once he’d taken the job. It was blonde, but now that it was long it grew more textured than it had while he was at Hogwarts, different from the smooth hair of his father. He had, in an effort to further conceal his resemblance to his father, grown out his stubble. He could not bring himself to grow a beard, but he could skip shaving for longer than a few days at a time. 

With long hair that often concealed his face, and a chin of stubble, it was easy to fool customers and avoid their hateful glances.

After the papers revealed that their suspicions were true, it grew harder to convince himself to go to work each morning. They would sometimes mob the store, or stand in long lines to take a glance at the fallen Malfoy. Draco paid them no mind, and in a few weeks, their attention moved on to the next big thing in the papers, and he was forgotten. 


	6. Moving On, or Trying To

**2001**

Draco was constantly on Harry’s mind, though over the years he’d surely grown out of the blurry image Harry had of him in mind. It was the dusty, muted version of Draco he remembered from dark halls and blinding summer lights. Edges of the image curled, like developed film overexposed and bleached by the sun. 

He’d worn the image out, turned it over and over until it creased and wrinkled. He’d smoothen it out, and then start all over again. There, he had smiled. That day at that time they had kissed. That afternoon of that season, they had held hands. A movie of their firsts, replaying over and over until Harry could never forget what Draco had worn when they first kissed (Hogwarts robes, green socks), and when they had first spoken of death (Hogwarts robes, but white woolen socks). 

Harry, of course, scoured through every paper after learning of Draco’s new occupation. 

He remembered the moment he read about it, how he’d almost spilled his morning tea at the headline and the bold image of Draco Malfoy that took up the entire page. For the first time in years, a new picture to store away, to turn over and crease. 

_Malfoy heir or Potions Master?_ He read.

_Has the world been fooled by the youngest Malfoy? Intelligence reveals that Draco Malfoy, former peer of Harry Potter, works at a feeble apothecary despite his enormous inheritance!_

Harry hardly pitied him, but a smile took over his face at the thought of Draco working a normal job. Nothing of the sorts intended by Lucius. He liked to think it was Draco’s form of a _fuck you_ to his father. 

Whatever the case, Harry could not take his eyes off Draco’s moving image. He’d grown his hair out rather long, almost resembling his father’s. He looked older, the signs of the war catching up to him in the form of premature wrinkles and dark circles. But more importantly, he’d grown into his own skin. His nose was sharper, his cheeks hollow, and his jaw more defined. He looked comfortable, confident, unbothered. 

Harry, disturbed but rather excited, found himself aching for him. Again. How could he not, seeing as how wonderfully Draco had grown since the last mention of him all those years ago. 

But no, it had been too long since then. Harry could, or _would,_ not see him. Even though it would be impossibly easy to find the address of the apothecary, walk over there, and demand to have him over for dinner. 

Harry considered it. Every morning, he scoured the pages for more information, but the papers grew tired of Draco quickly, and suddenly just as he’d appeared, Draco was gone from his view again. 

Following Hermione’s advice, Harry took time off from work. Not entirely, but he refused more than one mission which he knew would have him sent to St. Mungo’s. Instead, he spent his time with Rose. When Hermione or Ron were in need of a babysitter for date night, Harry would go over to their house and spend hours with her. He learned how to feed her, or put her to sleep. As she grew older, he learned how to read to her, and how to entertain her when she grew restless. 

Nonetheless, he couldn’t take Hermione’s real advice, of _seeing_ people. How could he? Each time he was approached by someone whether at the department, or elsewhere, he could only compare them to Draco. 

They didn’t speak like he did, not in the same manner or voice. They weren’t as brilliant or conniving as Draco. Their hands wouldn’t fit around his in the same way. They didn’t wear crisp shirts, straight backed and unapologetic. They didn’t have a ridiculous and unnecessary collection of socks. 

Each time he tried, he truly tried, he could only think more and more of Draco. He concluded, at the end of the day, that perhaps it was safer not to meet people at all. Each one was a disappointment in comparison, a tug at his guts whenever they said something _he_ wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say _that_. He wouldn’t try to impress him. He wouldn’t speak of houselves or ask his opinion on politics because he would already know. They had navigated one another effortlessly, to think of going through that all over again was sickening. 

He considered sleeping with strangers, only to fill the void in his bed. But even if he wasn’t the type to abhor the idea of one-night stands, he thought it would be quite difficult to sleep with a stranger who wouldn’t run straight to the _Prophet_. 

No, it would be embarrassing and awful to think of doing such a thing. So Harry distracted himself by other means, by working hard behind the desk.

In a way, without having someone to dote on, he had himself to work on. He thought this a positive thing, and Hermione agreed to an extent. 

He took care of himself, ate better food, went to see Molly to learn how to cook for himself instead of relying on microwavable meals or having food delivered to him. 

“You look fit,” Ron would say to him, and Hermione would hum in agreement. “Harry, you could have any girl in the world.”

The paper caught wind of his recent addiction to the gym, and he was once again hailed as the Fittest Bachelor Wizard of the Year. 

He liked to think that perhaps Draco would see the headline, envy him or yearn for him like Harry yearned for him. But Harry had no indication of anything like that happening. 

Then, several months went by. 

Slowly, consumed by work and exercise, he began to heal from Draco’s mark on him. Slowly, he began to see a future without him. He could see himself falling in love with somebody else. The idea of Harry or Draco with somebody else was not as jarringly painful, only a slight twist in his stomach. 

Slowly, he could look at other people and think them fit without comparing them to Draco’s tall and handsome form. Slowly, the idea of Hermione setting him up was not repulsive, not as it was before. 

This, Harry realized, had taken him years. He thought finally he could be himself without Draco’s shadow plaguing him, reminding him of their kisses, his touch, the heat of his tongue. 

And just as quickly, it was gone. 

Harry had been wandering down the street by Diagon Alley. His arms were casually swinging by his side. He had just been to Gringotts, to exchange some galleons for pounds, and then stopped by Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to say hello to Ron and George. He was walking farther away from Diagon Alley, swept up by the thrum of the crowd, and the multiple times he had to run into a store to avoid a camera flash. 

Distracted then, he could not be blamed for having wandered off too far. The stores grew unfamiliar, but the thrum of the crowd was still so heavy that he found himself enjoying his stroll nonetheless.

He stopped by a stall for a sandwich and sat by a nearby bench, and it was as he was taking a large bite, that he happened to glance at a tall and blonde wizard.

Nothing in the papers had prepared him for the wrenching feeling of when he first laid eyes on Draco, after so many years of them being apart. It was so different to see him in the flesh. Not because he looked any different, but because he was _there_ and _real_ , and _tangible_. Harry’s heart clenched in his chest, and he felt dizzy and nauseous all at once. Appetite ruined, he set his sandwich aside, and struggled to his feet. 

Draco hadn’t noticed him. He was turning, walking away and then inside the store. The Apothecary. Of course, Harry thought, as he flushed and turned away to find a spot to Apparate. 

Draco missed the pained look on Harry’s face when he’d seen him. Missed him entirely. 

Of course, given his luck, Harry would run into Draco. He hadn’t glanced at him, hadn’t noticed Harry’s look.

But Harry had seen him, tall and handsome as ever. Irresistibly mysterious and dark, his hair long as Lucius’s had been before Azkaban, his chin darkened with stubble. 

_Hell_ , Harry cursed. Every inch of him felt drawn to him, but repulsed all at once. His stomach lurched. He was embarrassed. Angry, too, suddenly remembering Draco failing to respond to his letter. 

It had only taken one look at Draco to remind him of everything. To remind him of his want for him, which he had tried so hard to suppress. It had taken one look at his dark robes in contrast to his silver hair to send him into a frenzy so uncontrollable that he Apparated quickly, unsure how he’d managed not to splinch himself.

For the rest of the day he thought only of Draco, only of the coincidence of seeing him. Only of the cowardliness he felt over _not_ going over there and speaking to him.

Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he gone up there, taken him by the shoulders and demanded a conversation? Why had it been so easy to trigger Harry’s flight mode, have him leave so quickly without a thought? 

Had it been a coincidence, to see him then and there? Or had it been fate? An odd sequence of events properly planned out by the universe. A sign of some sorts to remind Harry of what he’d had, to pursue it further.

Or was he a fool to think so? Perhaps he was a fool, blindly searching for any reason to see him, to speak to him. Perhaps he had subconsciously wandered there, seen the address of the apothecary on the papers, Auror reports, or something. 

He wasn’t sure. Regardless, all notions of moving on from Draco were discarded. He was back to square one, silently and painfully pinning for a man who wouldn’t have him.


	7. Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: description of sex and then some guilt

**2001**

Harry would miss Draco’s first time.

Draco was living a comfortable and unbothered life. 

Finally, he began to settle into his routine. He would work for several hours a day, read books on the subject of potions, and then go back to the Manor to work on other things. Sometimes, after work, he would visit Pansy or Blaise. All was normal.

He still grieved his mother. He had the Persian rug incinerated after her death, and the furniture entirely rearranged and replaced. Still, he felt sick walking by the room where she’d lain. Nothing would ease that feeling in his stomach, no amount of drinking or seeing Pansy would relieve him of the grief. Sometimes he would forget she was gone at all and expect to see flowers on the kitchen table, and then he would feel guilty for forgetting at all.

Sometimes, he dreamed of her. Her long and thick hair, her pale skin, her motherly touch from childhood. He would wake up breathless, a painful knot in his chest. And it would cloud his day. 

So he grew around it. Instead of fighting it, he embraced it. Yes, his mother was gone and it was terrible. Yes, he sometimes hated his work. But what else would he do? Grieving his mother all day would only hurt more. This was better. 

Besides, he was considering for a while now to have his own apothecary. Somewhere nearer to Diagon Alley, where he had seen a building for rent. He could have his own place, with no restrictions on which potions to brew.

Draco knew how to make a meaner Skele-Gro than Inkwell, anyway. 

On the days he wasn’t at work, Draco wandered down to the nearest Muggle town. One night, he had been wandering curiously following a restless afternoon at the Manor, and lingered later than he normally would. He walked, hands in his transfigured Muggle robes, farther into town than usual.

A sign caught his attention. A flashing sign announcing a gay Muggle club. He’d heard of such places, from Blaise and Pansy. But also from back at Hogwarts, overhearing hushed conversations from Muggle-born Gryffindors or Ravenclaws. 

He stood by the door, contemplating entering. He wasn’t dressed accordingly, that he knew. But nothing else would make him stand out. It was a busy night, no one would care, he concluded. 

No one would recognize him, and he wouldn’t do anything, he was only there to look.

He walked in, and the thrum of music and swaying bodies captivated him. He’d never seen anything like it, wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn’t been there before. 

The bar served him foul beer, nothing like butterbeer or firewhisky, but it would do.

It was inevitable that a man would approach him and buy him a drink. That Draco would entertain him, speak to him in that charming manner he often reserved for his parents’ guests. It was inevitable that the tall and buff man would lean in to listen, eyes sparkling with lust and enticement over Draco’s words.

It was also inevitable that he would take Draco home, invite him into his bed to fuck. Draco wasn’t drunk enough not to realize that perhaps doing so was a bad idea, that his mind despite its re-learning was still not in awe at Muggles. That a part of him was disgusted when the man had kissed him, taken his clothes off and taken him into his mouth.

But the warmth and wetness around his cock, the feeling of the man’s hair in his clenched fist as he fucked his mouth had him forgetting all about it.

Therefore, he hardly protested as the man got on all fours, stuck fingers inside himself and led Draco’s cock inside him. He could not protest, at the tightness of him, at the feeling of Draco inside him, fucking him. He liked the sound of his cries, the way the man clenched around him, dug his nails into his sheets as Draco took him quickly and roughly. 

Draco came, hot and flushed over the man’s back, who only groaned and then tugged himself into climax. 

Draco waited for him to sleep, and then Apparated to the Manor.

For days, he considered finding him only to fuck him again. He marveled at how long it had taken him to fuck someone. A _man_. He marveled at how much he’d enjoyed it. Of course he would enjoy it, but with a Muggle and a stranger?

He knew, however, that he wouldn’t be able to find him again. He hadn’t asked for his name, and he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d lived. 

As days progressed, the thrill of having sex eased from him. His eagerness for another lay was replaced by an itching feeling of unease. He’d risked a lot by doing what he’d done. He’d fucked a Muggle. He’d done everything against his father in one night. Fuck Lucius but the grips he had on him since his childhood were steel-tight.

He busied himself with work, with seeing his friends. He avoided the Muggle town by the Manor, but it was all right because he was busy and he had no use for it anyway.

* * *

He had been at work for what felt like longer than usual. He had a plan to curl by the fire with a book later when he got to the Manor. He would have dinner in the kitchen, and then move to his father’s study because he hated the living room. The fire in the study was warmer, anyway, he convinced himself. 

The familiar chime of the apothecary’s door rang clearly mid-day. The store was empty but for one or two customers, and Draco busied himself behind the till, wrapping several orders he would send out via owl. 

“Malfoy,” someone said, and Draco felt a sudden aching lurch from his gut. He took a moment, distracted by the task at hand, before glancing up.

Potter and a man he didn’t recognize were standing on the other side of the desk.

He looked well, Draco noted suddenly. He looked like he had on the papers. Fit, a healthy glow beneath his tanned skin. He was shorter than Draco, and his muscles bulged beneath his robes. His chiseled jaw was different, it had lost its roundness since Hogwarts, and his cheekbones were sharper. 

Still, he realized painfully. Harry wore similar if not the same pair of glasses, his hair was still a mess, and his robes were clearly old and no longer fit him as they should. 

He made Draco's skin feel like fire, his stomach squeeze. A sudden feeling that he was going to be sick alarmed him severely and for a moment he was tense all over.

Until that moment, Draco hadn’t allowed himself to think of Potter. But now, confronted by him so suddenly, all thoughts of him flooded back to his mind. Thoughts of Draco having sex with another man, memories of kissing Harry. 

Unreasonable guilt seized his chest. He was not supposed to feel guilty, he didn’t owe Harry anything. Still, he felt guilty.

He’d thought after having sex that he would feel prideful of having done so. That it meant he was over Potter, that he had moved on before Potter. He knew this, because any mention of Harry moving on would be in the papers. So Draco thought, he had something over him.

Now all sense of pride vanished. He felt empty and disgusted with himself. 

“Potter,” Draco finally spoke, looking between the two men.

“This is Auror Roberts,” Potter introduced. “We have a few questions concerning Inkwell.”

Draco, suddenly uneasy, said they should wait for the customers to leave before he closed the shop.

Potter and Roberts waited patiently. Roberts watched the customers pay for their things and leave. Potter wandered the shop, eyeing the bottles without a care for Draco’s presence. He looked older, moved with more precision and ease. Draco realized that although he had seen Potter change on paper, it was different seeing him so changed in person, years after the trials. It was dizzying. He would often look up from his work only to make sure he was real, corporeal, not a hallucination induced from a potions accident. 

Regardless, seeing him so undisturbed was painful to Draco. Not once did Potter glance at him in any way to indicate that they had once been the closest of friends. 

Finally, the customers left, and Potter joined Roberts by the desk. 

“You were saying,” Draco started. “About Inkwell?”

“There’s been suspicion of malpractice,” Roberts began. “Nothing alarming on your end, so far, unless you prove otherwise.”

“What are you saying?” Draco said, coldly, but afraid to meet Potter’s eyes so he was forced to look at Roberts’ suspicious ones instead. 

“We have license to check the back room,” Potter explained, and when their eyes met Potter looked at him steadily, no hint of compassion or friendliness. “If you would let us in then this can be over soon.”

“Shall I notify Inkwell?” Draco asked. “It is his store after all.” 

“There’s no need,” Roberts said. “Will you show us the room or will we have to draw our wands?”

Draco frowned, parted his lips to combat him but Potter looked at him sharply. For once, Draco thought he looked as though he recognized him. 

“Roberts,” Potter said. “Malfoy is not a suspect.”

“Not yet.”

“Enough,” Potter said sharply, and Roberts obeyed him. Anyone would obey him, kneel to him, heed him. It made him so much more unattainable, desirable, ethereal. “Malfoy, if you will.”

Draco, confused and alone, could do nothing but follow Potter’s orders. He showed the room, and then watched them scour the place for nearly an hour.

Inkwell, having heard of the news somehow, stormed in half-way through. With Potter’s warrant, however, he had no choice but to fume silently both at Draco who was innocent, and Potter who was indifferent to his anger.

Potter and Roberts collected samples, and discussed under their breaths. 

“We’ll be back soon,” Roberts said to Inkwell. 

Inkwell was outraged. “You have no right to disrupt my place of business with no evidence or cause! Who do you think you are?”

“You know who we are,” Roberts said calmly. “We had enough suspicion to warrant a search. Good day, Inkwell. Malfoy.”

Draco realized belatedly that as Roberts Disapparated, Potter had lingered. 

They met eyes, and Draco jerkingly looked away.

Inkwell was busy muttering under his breath, fixing the stock room and rightening the place. “Malfoy boy, do not simply stand there.”

“I’ll need to speak to Malfoy privately, actually,” Potter said, approaching him as Draco was about to straighten out a cauldron. 

“Fine, fine,” Inkwell muttered. “Whatever.”

“To the front,” Draco said, when Potter stood by him. “If you’d like.”

“Yes,” Potter agreed. “Farthest from Inkwell would be suitable.”

They walked out of the back room and stood by the entrance to the store. Harry took out a pad of paper and quill. 

“What’s going on?” Draco asked him quietly. “You nearly ravaged the place. Should I be worried?”

Harry was scribbling on paper, not meeting Draco’s gaze. “Not yet.”

“Potter, explain it to me,” Draco said, moving closer to him. 

But Harry stepped away, eyes looking up viciously and sharply at him. “Please.” 

“What?” Draco said, exhaustion evidently straining his voice. “I can’t have you dragging me into the Ministry, all right? I’ve kept my head down for so long. Search me if you’d like. I’d only like to understand what’s going on. You owe it to me.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Potter said stiffly. “But you don’t seem to be in any trouble so far.”

Draco could hardly relax. “What is it, then?”

“I need to question you,” Potter explained. “If Inkwell is using illegal ingredients, you would be our first clue.”

“I know nothing.” Draco said quickly. “Do you really think I would get myself involved if I knew Inkwell was conducting illegal business?”

Surely Potter would remember that Draco had no ill intentions, that mainly he spent his days grieving his mother and searching for purpose. 

Harry sighed, pocketing his quill and papers and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure,” Draco repeated, trying his best to conceal his disappointment. 

“I don’t know,” Potter frowned at him. “I haven’t seen you in how long now? I don’t know what you expect me to say, Malfoy. Perhaps if you responded to my letter-“

“The letter,” Draco laughed, tension tightening his fists. “Is that what this is all about? Your fucking letter?”

“No,” Potter frowned. 

“Are you _upset,_ Potter?” Draco smirked but he felt sick. “Would you like me to fetch the letter now?”

“No,” Potter ran his fingers through his hair. “No, forget it. You’re fine.”

Draco’s shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

“But do you really not know anything?” Harry asked, eyes staring at him intently. 

“I’m sure I would notice if Inkwell was acting suspiciously. Besides, he’s hardly ever here.”

Harry frowned at that. “What do you mean?”

“He has me at the store most days of the week,” Draco explained. “He only comes by a few times to check that I’m doing all right. Not making any potions.”

“Interesting,” Potter muttered, looking away in thought. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

“Sure,” Draco flushed, looking back towards the backroom. 

_There_ , Draco thought. Potter would leave and nothing would come of this. He would go away, and Draco would be able to get over him. He’d boycott the papers if he had to.


	8. Inkwell

**2001**

Potter worked on Inkwell’s case knowing it was related to Draco. 

He knew he shouldn’t, because if he did then he would have personal interest in the case. He would be biased, if anyone held anything against Draco. Because even after all this time he only thought of him fondly. And a part of him knew Draco would never be involved in a crime, his nature would not permit it.

He knew this, because he liked to believe he knew Draco.

It was a small case, nothing serious. It would be given to junior Aurors, ones yet incapable of the cases which required skills in defensive spells. 

But reading the case file, Harry had to have it.

When he’d seen Draco he didn’t know what took over him.

He’d seen him that day, walking into the store, and turned away before Disapparating. 

But at the store, he stood close to Draco. He could smell his cologne, the sharpness of the notes he was familiar with from their days at Hogwarts. 

Draco had looked at him, surprised and somewhat upset after mentioning the letter.

Harry thought of it with dread. Why had he brought up the sodding letter? He should not have mentioned it all. He should have pretended he didn’t care, should have forgotten all about it. It had been years.

He was glad, nonetheless, of seeing Draco. They had spoken amicably yet somewhat formally. It was fine. 

“The case on Inkwell,” Roberts said, walking into Harry’s office, shaking him from his thoughts. 

Roberts dropped the files on his desk and looked at him. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Harry cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll go over this. Anything to note?”

“Some forbidden ingredients,” Roberts said. “Usual for an apothecary like Inkwell’s. What did you think of Malfoy?”

Harry glanced up, surprised. “What do you mean?"

Roberts raised his eyebrows. “You questioned him after I left?”

“Yes,” Harry said, rearranging his thoughts. “He seems innocent. I don’t think he knows what’s going on. Said Inkwell was hardly around the store. We should look into that, by the way.”

Roberts nodded, taking notes. “And we believe him?”

“Malfoy?” Harry asked. “We have no reason to doubt him.”

“No need for Veritaserum?” Roberts asked.

Harry scoffed. “You’re serious?”

“He’s Malfoy.”

“I know Malfoy,” Harry said, indignantly. “I went to Hogwarts with him.”

“So did the rest of us.” Roberts said. “You defend him more than I expected, all things considered.”

“He did no harm,” Harry frowned.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Harry ignored him, and arranged to send the samples of the potions to the Ministry’s forensic department to study its content. 

He knew Roberts wasn’t wrong to think what he thought, that many thought the same way of Draco, even after all those years of him laying low and keeping out of trouble. He’d separated himself so far from his father as to make sure no one suspected him again. 

Harry paced around his office, thinking of Draco relentlessly. 

This is why he shouldn’t have involved himself, he could hardly think of anything other than Draco. Could only think of Draco’s long hair, dark robes, wandering round the apothecary, delicate fingers working potions into cauldrons as he’d done at Hogwarts. 

He remembered what it was like watching him in Potions class, under Snape’s intrusive gaze, how he’d had to be discreet, only whispering how much he’d wanted him then when they were safe from the public’s gaze past curfew. 

“You’re pulling my leg,” Draco had said, pressing kisses to Harry’s neck.

“No,” Harry said, pulling away slightly to look at him. “The way you handled the potions, like you knew entirely what you were doing. You were so focused. It was attractive.”

“Attractive,” Draco had repeated, with a short laugh. “You’re mocking me.”

“No,” Harry smiled, kissing him. “But I know your hands are skilled in other ways.”

Draco had flushed, then squared his shoulders stubbornly. “I won’t brew any illegal potions for your quest against Voldemort.”

“I never asked,” Harry said, laughing. He liked that Draco could speak about Voldemort without flinching, that he could make a joke of the situation. 

“Good,” Draco kissed him. “Shut up, then.”

Harry busied himself with the case. There was a possibility of seeing Draco again. He liked the prospect. 

They found out Inkwell was smuggling illegal ingredients and potions from France, in connection to an international case of illicit trafficking. He stored them at his own home, far from the store and entirely unconnected to Draco. There was no evidence or reason to suspect him, he was only made a witness. 

Inkwell argued and denied his role, stating the ingredients were well-known to enhance regular potions like Pepperup or Skele-Gro. But he had been brewing all sorts like Veritaserum and Polyjuice Potion, masked as regular potions. 

They had tracked his last interaction with the potions cartel in France. It had been pure coincidence, or they would not have found a lead in the case. They raided his home, found that he was selling potions to underaged Hogwarts students too dim and rich to consider their adverse effects. 

The case was closed soon after. 

“You’re free to go,” Harry said to Draco, who had been at the department to provide a final witness statement. 

“Thank you,” he said, hesitating before standing to retreat. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “What will you do next?”

“Pardon?” Draco frowned. 

“The store will have to be shut down, you understand.”

“Of course, Potter,” he said sourly. “Why? Are you tracking me, now?”

“No,” Harry said honestly. “I’m only curious to see where you’ll go from here.”

Draco looked away. “Actually, you may be of use to me.”

He told him of the spot by Diagon Alley, where he wanted to open his own apothecary. 

“You see, I think there’s some license I need before operating-”

“Of course,” Harry said quickly. “I can help. I can ask Ron about it.”

“Oh, no,” Draco said quickly, looking away. “That would be unnecessary. I know it’s too much to ask anyway I only hoped-”

“Come off it, Draco,” Harry said. “He won’t mind. He’s been at Diagon’s for ages now, helping out George with the business.”

“I know,” Draco said. “But I wouldn’t want to bother him. I only asked because I thought you would know something about a business license and the last thing I want to do is be stuck in this place again.”

“You won’t,” Harry reassured him. “I won’t ask Ron, but I’ll find you the information you need.”

Draco nodded. “Thank you.” 

Harry did as promised, found all sorts of information about opening a business at Diagon’s. He sent Draco files via owl, delivered to him at the Manor.

Draco received them graciously, thanking Harry for his help. 

Then it was silence between them again, as though nothing had passed. 

Harry read about the store’s opening, and then about its success. 

It seemed things were going well for Draco, as he’d expected. He would leave him alone, then, no use in bothering him. 


	9. The Letters

**2002**

Harry would miss Draco opening the two letters at the bottom of his drawers. 

First, Lucius’s, as he leaned against his dresser, heart raging in his chest. 

_Son,_

_I send you my condolences regarding your mother’s death. Despite all that had passed between us, I hope you are well aware of the love and affection I had for her._

_You may believe this was my doing, and I assure you, I share similar sentiments._

_No amount of fame or galleons will bring her back._

_Remember, you owe me no forgiveness, though I am still your father. Seek him, if you desire peace of mind or the reassurance of a loving parent._

_Lucius Malfoy_

To that day, Draco could hardly fathom how his father had managed to send a letter to him from the deepest corners of Azkaban.

He set the letter aside, his father’s consolation and words of reassurance read too late. The grief over his mother’s death was too potent to be cured by the words of a regretful father. He slipped the letter back to its place in the drawer. 

Draco thumbed the one addressed to him by Potter, his writing a familiar and messy scrawl. 

_Draco_ , 

_I read the papers. I know nothing I say can make you feel better, but know that I understand your grief._

_Your mother_ _raised a caring and wise man. She was loving towards you, I saw it and envied it for years. Regardless of who you are, she would love you unconditionally._

_I never had the chance to tell you this before, but I would like to now. Your mother saved my life, that day I had to destroy Voldemort. I will be forever indebted to her, and with her death I’m afraid I’ll never be able to pay her back for her service. I pardoned the two of you in some attempt, but still I feel indebted._

_I have you now, instead. If there is anything in the world you need, make sure to write to me._

_I’m truly sorry for your loss. I hope to hear from you soon,_

_Harry_

Draco set the letter aside, running his thumb over Harry’s scrawled writing in an attempt to further decipher the meaning of his words. 

He never heard of his mother saving Harry’s life, though it made sense then, how she’d received a much kinder sentence despite her role in the war. 

Draco stood, holding the letter in his hand and then paced his bedroom. 

It was years too late for a reply. 

Harry, by then, would have moved on from Draco. It was evident, from the distance that had formed between them since his help with Draco’s apothecary.

Yet Draco thought of him often. He thought of Harry and the mention of the letter, back at Inkwell’s apothecary. He thought of Harry, when he was brewing potions late at night. He had felt proud of himself on the day of his apothecary's official opening, it must have been the happiest day he'd had in years. _Yet_ , he could only think of how he yearned for someone else to be there, to share his joy. He had thought of Harry. 

Draco did the only reasonable thing he could do at that point. Head spinning with thoughts of Harry, of secret kisses, fingers around his wrists, whispered confessions, and a brilliant set of green eyes. 

He sent him a letter. 

Yes, a reply that was nearly 5 years too late, but this was nothing like a reply. It was a letter to confirm his feelings. 

Harry either thought of him just as much or wanted nothing to do with him. Draco felt it. It was ridiculous, but he knew somewhere in the back of his head Harry thought of him vigorously too. Painfully. Every morning he woke up and thought of him, of the space in his bed reserved for him. Every night he went to bed, thinking of his warm tongue and soft skin. 

During the day the papers did nothing to ease his thoughts, only fueling his desires and encouraging his absurd belief that perhaps, just maybe, by some odd miracle, Harry felt the same. 

He liked to think, no he really liked to believe, that Harry was obsessed with him too. 

How could he not when sometimes he felt the ghost of his touch? How could he not, when coincidences bound them together? Would the universe be so cruel to send him signs if Harry wanted nothing to do with him?

So, some time past midnight he wrote a letter and attached it to his owl. He watched the wings until they grew too small in the distance, and then he waited. 

While he waited, he knew Harry had all rights to reject his attempt at reaching out. 

What a ridiculous excuse he’d used. What ugly and unsophisticated language he’d used. He may as well have written in gibberish. 

His heart was in his throat when a reply arrived to him not much longer. 

_Draco,_

_Yes, Inkwell is serving time well in Azkaban . Though some inmates had to be called off him because someone caught wind of his business at Hogwarts. It was something or other like that._

_Do you really care what happens to him? Was he so different with you?_

_-H_

Draco traced the jagged writing with the tips of his fingers. Harry’s handwriting hadn’t improved much but the message was short. It was inviting in a way, Harry didn’t end it there. 

It was a request, Draco thought eagerly. An invitation for his response. 

He wrote quickly. 

_D,_

_If you don’t care then why ask? You know, if you want help with the store, there’s no need for pleasantries._

_How is it? The business?_

_-H_

Draco gnawed at his bottom lip, he wanted to reach out and shake Harry. How pathetic, that he was chasing him after all these years. 

Harry responded the next day. That night of waiting had been horrid. He'd woken up too early, tossed in bed feverishly at the prospect of receiving another note. What would he say? What if their exchange ended there, and Harry was snatched from him again?

Their correspondence grew regular. Sometimes Draco was late to reply for a few hours, sometimes Harry was absent for days only to apologize he was caught in a horrid case. On those days, he would miss him painfully. He could only eat, sleep, and think of him. He worried for him. What if something went wrong? How had he lived before, for _years_ without reading his letters? Now it was days, and the ache in his chest was blinding. 

_We haven’t spoken about it since back then but being an Auror is a job which haunts me. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to work with you instead. Are there any available positions?_

_-H_

_Harry,_

_For you, I’m sure we can find a suitable role._

_-D_

And so on. 

In a way it was a game of tug of war and eventually someone would pull too hard, or both would surrender. 

\--

He began to meet with Pansy and Blaise regularly. They visited the Manor, or sometimes they wandered out and had lunch or dinner together. 

Pansy liked the Manor. She liked to explore its ancient hallways, the grand rooms, the antique furniture. Draco also believed it was a sentimental experience for her. The Manor was perhaps the only place unchanged from their childhood. To her, at least. Draco’s memories of Voldemort’s taint on his home were not easy to forget. 

She also liked the house elves, because they were different from the ones kept at the Parkinson’s home and they made better tea.

She nursed the cup of warm tea in her hand, and then glanced at Blaise as he spoke of something Draco was too distracted to hear. 

“But you wouldn’t mind, would you?” Blaise looked at Draco tentatively. 

“Mind?” he asked, drawn back to their conversation. 

“If I may be friends with Potter.”

For a moment, Draco forgot that everything had been a secret. He panicked, thinking somehow he had let on that he’d once been Potter’s regular kisser. 

“Why would I mind?” 

Pansy glanced at him for a moment before looking away.

“Why would I mind?” he asked again, glancing between the two Slytherins.

“You hated him,” Blaise said. “You were obsessed.”

“That was years ago,” he said, though his gut twisted at the very thought of Potter. “Why would I mind?”

“All right,” Pansy interjected. “Blaise, you may befriend the sodding Gryffindor. Honestly, Draco. After all those years.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Draco said indignantly, tempted to snatch the delicate tea cup and smash it against the wall only out of spite. “I was never obsessed.”

Blaise and Pansy exchanged another glance.

“Regardless,” Blaise cleared his throat. “Since I’m seeing Ginny I thought I would meet him a few times and we may have spoken of grabbing a drink.”

“ _Ginny Weasley_ ,” he repeated. 

Blaise looked at Pansy. “I told you he wasn’t listening.”

“And you’re grabbing _drinks with Harry. Potter._ ” 

It was entirely absurd. 

“Yes,” Blaise said slowly. “She introduced us. He’s actually all right now.”

“What did you talk about?” Draco asked quickly, and then bit his tongue. “What does one talk about with Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley?”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Pansy muttered, setting her tea aside. “Look, you’ve got him obsessed again.”

“Quidditch,” Blaise said. “Potions. I don’t know, Draco. It was normal.”

“Nothing about him is normal,” he said, but his voice sounded far away like an echo. He felt he was stuck inside his head, a million thoughts occurring at the same time. 

“I thought he would be jealous, frankly,” Blaise went on. “You know, everyone thought they were dating. Turns out it was only a rumor.”

“Does Potter date?” Pansy asked curiously, setting her empty tea cup aside. “It’s never in the papers. Do you think you could ask? It would be interesting to know his type. I wonder, if Ginny wasn’t good enough for him.”

Draco felt himself flush. “Don’t _ask him_. Pansy, honestly.”

“What?” she said coldly, narrowing her eyes at him. “Is it so bad to be curious?”

Draco chose to remain quiet. 

“I won’t ask,” Blaise said quietly. “You don’t mind, then?”

Draco wanted to say yes. Of course he minded. Of course he would rather be the one meeting Potter for drinks, not _Blaise._ He wished he could ask what he was like, if he was doing okay. He wanted to ask if he noticed how fit he’d gotten, wondering if Blaise could take him shopping for proper robes. 

“I don’t mind,” he said instead, and then used his wand to refill their cups with fresh tea.


	10. New Friends

**2002**

Draco would miss pub night with Ginny, Hermione, Ron, and Blaise. Though he would hear of it later. 

Blaise reminded Harry of Draco. He was reserved at first, but once he let go of his defenses they got along quite well. Ginny liked him, and that was enough for the Gryffindors. 

Ron looked strange the entire night, unsure what to make of the situation. He glanced at Harry, as if expecting him to jump up and curse Blaise at any moment to regain Ginny’s presumed affections. Harry smiled at the thought and the look on his face.

Blaise reminded Harry of Draco, because they were Slytherins and they were friends. Each time he looked at him, or spoke to him, he would think of what Draco would make of the situation. He wondered if he knew. He felt a thrill run through him at the thought of Draco hearing about their new friendship. Would he ask about him? 

He nearly asked about Draco, but his friends were there too and he was afraid of Hermione’s unbelievable detection skills.

He needn’t ask, after all. Two rounds into butterbeer, awkward tension eased, and Blaise smiled and laughed as if they’d never been on different sides of the war. He spoke of Pansy and Draco freely, and Harry latched on to every word he uttered. Memorized every fact, every childhood memory, every story which allowed him a different perspective on Draco’s character. 

They were very good friends, he knew. They were his only friends, really. Harry liked that, because he felt he too only had a small circle of close friends and he thought it was just the way it should be. 

“What was he like at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked. “I’ve heard he’s so different now. Ron thinks the Apothecary is so successful he’s afraid of his own business. Though, mind you, they are completely different enterprises I’ve got no clue why he’s-”

“I never said that.” Ron interjected swiftly, flushing over his pint of butterbeer. “Don’t tell him that. I never said that.” 

Ginny laughed, leaning comfortably into Blaise’s side as he slung a lazy arm around, as if they were molded to be together. 

“He was a git, wasn’t he?” Blaise said fondly, as he rolled his wrist and watched the beer slosh around his pint. “Always finding ways to pick fights. Especially with you, Potter. I wasn’t very good friends with him at the beginning, we grew closer after the war. I remember he was very dodgy, especially right before the war. I thought it had something to do with his father. He was always wandering around alone. Especially at night. He would sneak out of his bed. In the morning, it would take everything to make sure he was awake for breakfast.”

Harry looked away at that, thinking he could blame his flushed face on butterbeer. 

“We always knew he was up to something,” Ron said, smiling.

“What, you mean he must’ve been working for Voldemort?” Ginny asked, intertwining her fingers with Blaise’s, stilling his absentminded movements. 

“Of course,” Hermione nodded. “Harry tried very hard to prove it.”

“Oh, I was nearly certain you meant he was sneaking off to the Astronomy tower,” Ginny grinned at Blaise. “Is that not what he was doing?”

Ron laughed loudly. “Harry, that might have been it all along.”

Harry drank more beer. 

“Who would he sneak around with anyway?” Ginny asked, waving for another beer. “Pansy?”

“No,” Blaise chuckled. “Certainly not.”

“You sound very confident of that,” Harry said, only to say something.

Blaise winced. “It’s nothing.”

“What?” Ginny asked, sitting up. “Was it someone else? Do you think it was someone from another house? Perhaps that was why he tried to hide it. I imagine his family would have disapproved.”

Harry wanted to end the conversation. He thought hard on how to change the subject without arousing suspicions. 

“Whoever it was,” Blaise said. “Nothing came of it. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

Harry was grateful for his response, and conversation slowly drifted onto different matters. 

* * *

“I hear you’re stealing my friends,” Draco said. “Who’s next? Pansy? Are you and Blaise hoping to set her up with Longbottom?”

Harry had managed to find an excuse to see him. 

He had been wandering down Diagon Alley to say hello to Ron and George, and happened to notice the Apothecary was rather empty. He thought to check if everything was all right, and looked through the glass windows. When Draco caught his eye, he thought it would be rude not to say hello. Besides, if they were going to be friends he should support his business.

Draco looked at him icily at his blabbering explanation, almost a mirrored expression of Snape’s harrowing glare.

“And by the way, Neville is already in love,” Harry blurted, without meaning to. He turned away from the counter, to gaze at the rest of the shop. Shelves lined the store, like those at a bookstore. He was sure the potions which sat on them were arranged in some sort of order, perhaps alphabetically. 

“That wasn’t the point,” Draco said, quietly. “It’s odd, that’s all.”

Harry turned to him again. He looked pointed and pale as always. His hair was brushed back into a knot at the base of his neck, and stubborn wisps of hair escaped the ribbon which held it back.

Draco tucked the little hairs behind his ear, as he waited for a response.

“Odd?” Harry said, suddenly on edge. “Does it make you uncomfortable? I never meant to do that.”

“No,” Draco frowned, hands busily rearranging his books behind the counter. “Perhaps. I don’t know yet. I think it’s strange. I’ve kept you from my world and you’ve kept me from yours. Perhaps I prefer it that way.”

Harry licked his lips, suddenly unfathomably nervous. “I won’t see him again. If that’s what you want. I didn’t realize.”

He was blabbering. The shirt on his back seemed to tighten, stick to his skin with sweat. 

“You wouldn’t,” Draco looked at him sharply. “Realize. I don’t know, Potter. All of it is strange. You’re strange. Speaking to you like...like nothing ever happened.”

“Something happened,” Harry moved closer to the counter. “I won’t deny it.”

“But you won’t speak of it,” Draco said, and Harry wanted to reach out and touch him. 

“What is there to say?”

Draco frowned, recoiling. “Right. It happened and then I failed to respond to your letter and that was it.”

“No,” Harry reached for his hand. It was soft and sharp beneath his fingers, and he held it tight when Draco reflexively tried to withdraw. Their eyes met. Draco’s were cold and gray, fixed on his face as if unsure what to think of him. Harry liked it, Draco’s attention. He felt emboldened by it. “I mean, yes. But we can talk about it.”

“And say what?” Draco's voice was soft, and it jerked something inside of Harry. 

He tightened his hold. He was practically leaning over the counter. “You could start by explaining why you never wrote back to me. I waited for you. I thought you wanted me to stay away and I was obeying you.”

Draco laughed a surprised huff of air. “I never. I never intended for that to happen. Your letter was simply ill timed. I apologize, it wasn’t proper.”

“Sod proper,” Harry said. 

“I meant to,” Draco said slowly, eyes connecting with Harry’s again. “Of course I meant to write you back. Only hours turned into days and then weeks and months. I felt ashamed. It would be too late, you would forget.”

“Forget,” Harry smiled. 

“I understand,” Draco said quickly. “It wasn’t like we were in a relationship.”

“No,” Harry said truthfully. “But we kissed.”

“Yes,” Draco flushed visibly. 

“And it was good,” Harry said, smiling. “It was really good.”

Draco looked at their hands and it was electrifying. “It was wrong timing. Everything was.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “But it’s been years and it seems we’re drawn together over and over. I haven’t once stopped thinking of you.”

Draco stared. “I don’t know what to say.”

Harry eased his hold from his hand. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Draco rounded the counter, so they stood facing each other and Harry watched him, unmoving. 

They had been exchanging letters for weeks now, yet Harry felt he must be cautious. Perhaps they could be friends, but the idea of it sickened him. If they were to be friends, then he would rather revert to not seeing him altogether. Because if he could keep Draco, he wanted to keep him as he was meant to be kept. 

“I do,” Draco said. “Because I feel the same way.”

Harry felt hot all over, his chest tightening as his mind raced with ideas. “Okay. Good. Okay.”

Draco smiled, finally. “Good.”

Harry moved towards him, and when Draco nodded he kissed him. And it was as if he’d been holding his breath for five years and he could finally come up for air.

It was like they’d never stopped kissing, like they’d been kissing every day since fifth year. They knew exactly how to tilt their heads, where to touch.

“I was jealous of Blaise,” Draco said suddenly.

Harry laughed, kissing him again. “What?”

“That’s why I said you should stay away from him. Because I thought if you didn’t want me then it would be too much. To hear him talk about you so casually. To hear him go on about drinks, and the Weasley girl. I should have been hearing news from you, I should not have to hear them from him. But we had been exchanging letters, and I thought you wanted nothing else but to write. I was willing to just write if it meant I was only hearing of you from you.” Draco paused, and then his pale cheeks turned pink, and he frowned. “Though of course I understand your trepidations.” 

“My trepidations?” Harry smiled at him, encouragingly. 

“Yes, to be associated with me,” Draco said. When Harry tried to speak he held out his hand. “You had no problems with it when we were at Hogwarts, but things have changed. So much has happened. It has been years, it is inevitable that we’ve both changed.” 

“I understand,” Harry said, quietly, taking his hand. “But I am willing to learn you all over again. I see it not as a defect.” 

“Then if things are different now,” Draco said. “If it isn’t wrong timing.”

“It isn’t,” Harry pressed, fingers twining with Draco’s. “Not for me.”

“Then your world can mix with mine,” he smiled, drawing him in for another kiss. “If you’d like.”

Grinning, dazed and drunk with relief, Harry said, “I’d like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!  
> Thanks for sticking around so far. This was sort of all over the place because I wrote it over a few months and it may or may not have been inspired by my own experiences (lol, though I didn't have the same ending). I guess this is for those who struggle with no closure. Idk, it gets better. But I do recommend expressing frustration and silent pining through writing fan fiction.


End file.
